


Three Days From The Moon

by Phrenotobe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bodysharing, Gen, Other, Sharing a Body, Sharing a Brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave manages to wrest control in the hazy moment before your consciousness extends over him, and the two of you fumble and fall mid-stride as you each pick a different leg. Winded and floored, you wait a moment just to be safe before extending the digits of your right hand and pushing up off the carpet again.<br/>Nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days From The Moon

“I’m sure that the investigative bureau will be interested to meet you,” Rose says, leaning over your chair, just a bit too close for comfort. It makes your skin tingle, hotly, the long, pale hairs on your arms raising up in what you hope isn’t a mating display, because you are actually a little terrified of the look she’s giving you.  
_So help me Rose this is batshit ridiculous if I could use my hands I’d flip that fucking table._  
“I didn’t mean to cause a problem,” you say diplomatically, “Your brother’s consciousness is safe and all of his memories are intact.”  
You are only sure of what a brother is because his brain recognizes him that way when your eyes alight on her. His sister Rose, purple and weird and funny and pretentious like a selfie in the rain. What is a selfie. _A picture._ Oh.  
He hasn’t stopped rambling since you entered and you don’t know why he can’t just freely switch over with you. Why does this species have so few lobes in their brain? Those little inner dialogues checking information loses you precious seconds in the world outside of his memory, and his angry ranting is distracting you.  
“Forgive my cynicism, but I can’t actually tell that for sure.”  
_Are you fucking joking with me Rose, I’m still here!_  
your face muscles tug into a frown, eyebrows bumping into the frames of his aviators. You put your hands up to take them off and squint painfully in the electric light before his pupils contract.  
“I’ll leave if that would be preferable,” _You have no fucking idea how preferable, you’re a goddamn clown car of bad decisions,_ “As soon as I can find my Self.”  
“That sounds very zen, but I’m not sure I can trust you until you give me proof that my brother is still alive.”  
_I’m taking you with me,_ he grumbles, bouncing angrily toward a neuron cluster that unfolds a small cascade of memories like an upturned box of pictographic records. Unhelpful.  
You nod, firmly.  
“He is yelling at me because he isn’t able to flip any tables. He also called me a clown car.”  
_You assbackward piece of alien slime I said your decisions were fucking awful._  
She puts her hand on your arm and you flinch.  
“An assbackwards piece of slime. Alien slime,” you add, “That is the last thing he said.”  
She purses her mouth.  
“Well then. Can you tell me where you left it?”  
“Um,” you say, turning your head, “Where...?”  
“Your body. If you can go back to it, I assume it has to be somewhere.”  
He pulls up a memory just to yell about it. You are learning so many euphemisms right now.  
“I’m sorry,” you say uncomfortably, “I don’t know where that is.”  
She lets out a little _pfft_ before drawing her previous smile back onto her face, and pats your cheek.  
“Obscurification is not an encouraging habit to have.”  
“I can tell you what I know,” you say, slowly, enunciating with a weird tongue and weirder teeth.

What you know isn’t much. 

From Dave, you are aware that Rose works in an official capacity as an FBI Psych consultant. He’s a field investigator, which mainly involves poking around places to work out if there is something going on there. (usually there isn’t.) While your host is mostly sure that you - he and you, together - will not be brought in to the _secret department_ (he mentally crooks his fingers twice) there’s still a little doubt lingering in the back of his mind. This was not the first contact you wanted. 

When the ship broke and your pod scanned for a place to land, you forgot to exclude sentient populations from the view. As the escape shell left space and sizzled rattlingly through the atmosphere, landfall was unintended, chaotic, and upsetting. Neon lights shone and bright, acrid smells poured in through the scopes - Loud shouting from the scanners and a trilling, repeating set of huffing notes amid the squawking noise of aliens at ease. The crash was less jolting than meeting the aliens themselves later on, a skidding scuff across a flat plane before burning a hole through molded and set crushed stone aggregate. 

Your host doesn’t move when you call to it. Anxious, you push it a little more, uncharacteristic of the agreement you have, and they ignore all your input and fold into a tight curl among the wreck. It’s an unknown length of time before a pair of figures with bright lights enter through the breech to poke at the crash site, dressed in dark, hardly-practical clothes and scuffing their footwear on the crumbling debris. They do not seem like public officials at all.  
The light confuses you - causes feelings you identify as unpleasant - and you feel a tug as the bar of brightness flashes over the oculars of your host. You react by setting your host aglow, desperately filling their bioluminescent pods underneath their skin in a defensive display. It has the opposite effect of what you want and there’s the crackle snap of a radio wave buzzing in your host’s aural canals as the native tries to get a signal outside.  
Knowing that you are straining them, you find your grip releasing, coming away from the comforting curls and folds of their navigational matter centres, springing up, out into the impossibly expansive air to try and buy them more time.  
The nearest investigator makes a whistle, not looking away from your shimmering form as other does - their eyes are shielded by dark lenses suspended by wire. 

“Hey there little guy,” he says in a little reverent whisper, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”  
You don’t know that, don’t understand it - not until you remember it with him from the inside and outside.  
_I still didn’t want to hurt you, dammit. I didn’t know._  
He reaches to touch and feels a light sting. His fingertips still tingle when you place them on a hard surface.  
_I know._

His sister - Rose, Rosie, who lives alone, and doesn’t talk to strangers other than in official capacities at which point she spills grand words at a bullet rate, is leaving the room. Your arm-hairs rise again and something in your middle flops unpleasantly because she’s threatening toward you, but at least when she was around you knew what she was doing.  
Apparently that’s a kitchen. According to Dave, it contains food.  
You are suddenly aware that you have not consumed any for quite some time. 

She returns a moment later, reaching for your hand and tugging you out of the seat.  
The kitchen is a narrow galley, with a bright strip of overhead light and flat square storage cubes. The worktops are slightly cluttered - dangerous contraptions left askew. Dave doesn’t even know what half of them do, since he prepares what few vegetables he deems acceptable with a knife.

“I assume you haven’t eaten.”  
You turn your head to take in more of the room as your mouth tries to put a positive sound together. She catches for your sleeve to bring you back to her focus.  
“Are you hungry,” she repeats.  
You let muscle memory draw a yes, an extending of the jaw over the vowel.  
She nods, and opens a cupboard to retrieve a loaf, turning around and giving you a quick look up and down before she slides past you to reach the refrigerator in the narrow space. A part of her belly bumps against the wrinkled end of your shirt just above the belt. 

“I’ll fix the usual, shall I?” Rose says, hidden by the door, “So the two of you can both enjoy it.”  
You shuffle toward her, and the rest of her body appears again as she closes the door, giving you a squint.  
“Do you have to?” she says, “I’m not going anywhere.”  
Perhaps that means you are being a little clingy. You don’t move any more, awkwardly angled against the cupboards. She sets a jar into your hands as she passes and you hold onto it like a life preserver, folding both hands around it and nearly swallowing it in your grip, thumbs crossed over each other over the top. 

Rose starts to build something on a plate, and you use the spare height to watch over her shoulder. She clicks her tongue, reaches behind herself without turning her head to look, and pulls the jar out of your hands with a couple of tugs.  
“Thanks,” she says, her tone dry. 

Eating in her presence is then a self-conscious affair, and you fumble the food to your mouth and do your best. Rose stops watching after a while, her curiosity apparently sated. 

Falling asleep is a strange experience. Dave starts complaining about the time at ten-thirty, but Rose holds out until twelve, by which point your head feels like a fuzzy weight with the bright ping-pong ball of Dave’s consciousness battering against the inside of it. She puts her book aside just as you start to lean more into the supportive softness of the upholstery quietly wishing for death and offers her hand again to pull you up and lead the way. The spare room is replete with many dubious woven things; knitted fancy-pants bullshit, Dave helpfully supplies.  
She shuts the door on you, and grimly, Dave talks you through getting into pyjamas. 

You take a glance at the sky. Your host is quite probably moving around autonomously at this point if they’re not too damaged. Being asked to shut down when the light cycle is at the other side of the planet is strange - surely the sun is damaging - but at least you’re in the mood to do it. You wish on your liver that they don’t move too far away from the crash site, and get under the covers.

The morning is not the best.  
Dave manages to wrest control in the hazy moment before your consciousness extends over him, and the two of you fumble and fall mid-stride as you each pick a different leg. Winded and floored, you wait a moment to be safe before extending the digits of your right hand and pushing up off the carpet again.  
_Nice._  
You try to avoid displaying a negative reaction - it’s not his fault, you aren’t used to his biology - but you do feel mildly disappointed. Being able to access his easy amble would really improve not only your ability to blend in but also to find your original host. The house is quiet, the hallway dark against the closed-curtain brightness of a spring morning, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. Dave fumbles into some doubts and fears of appearing anything less than fully prepared, so it’s a mutual decision to re-dress.

The undergarments are easy enough, as are the leg coverings at first - one leg and then the other - but the belt to hold them in place doesn’t go how you need it to, and the shirt buttons end up a forlorn mess as you accidentally put a button through the wrong hole and don’t realize until the rest of them are done. Dave urges you to _tug the jeans up enough to cover his asscrack._  
You give them a tug, and the threads snap, he winces internally and you retrieve a belt loop now freed from servitude.  
_Sorry._  
_God dammit._  
Rose’s knuckles rattle at the door before she opens the door a crack.  
“Are we all decent?” 

 

Breakfast is another trial, pieces of bread covered in an oily substance. You’d have eaten an entire rack of it if she hadn’t stopped you - you’re not sure why they all tasted so good. Dave doesn’t know the science of it either, but applauds your attempt to go _apeshit bananas over like fifty squares of toast._  
The daylight streams in through the window as she crosses the room to pull the curtains open, and it hurts your eyes, stunning you as the light hits you directly in the oculars.  
In a move that Rose would later remark as “overdramatic”, your body falls sideways off the chair, your intangible form once again shaken from your host. 

Up in the air, everything’s hard to distinguish - there are certainly two bodies in the room, identically pale-headed with dark clothes, both on their feet, both close to each other. You can’t tell who is who at this angle, this level of perception.  
You make a decision, aware that the moments you spend away from a host will rapidly drain your essence. 

You pick wrong, but it was an honest mistake. 

She puts up quite a fight, which is unpleasant for everyone. Settling in, you try to give her ample room but once again, there’s not a lot you can do. You mentally mark it off, _unsuitable without further development,_ and she huffs at the insinuation.  
_I was going to send for an expert,_ she gripes.  
You’re reasonably certain that there will be no problems with that, now that Dave’s able to help. Not that she’ll let him enter her passwords. It is unfortunately up to you.

Her instant messaging list features a short three-person community of personals and her email autofill is full of agents legal, field and publishing. The latter are mostly rejections. She informs you icily that you need to navigate to the new email button on the left side.  
Rose is much more of a director than Dave, who at first pushed 60% of the way and gradually hung back and let you fill in the rest. Being the person in charge of the grasper segments is now a dubious honour as you hunt and peck her dictated message and put the address in the specified field. She sighs, flops over, and kicks a memory of a rainy afternoon to set the mood to her boredom. You feel like this will be quite a long conscious period.

“I made you some of that stuff she keeps in the fancy tins,” Dave announces, setting a cup of brown liquid by your wrist. “Added milk and junk so you wouldn’t burn yourself, I checked it.”  
_That tea isn’t supposed to be mixed with milk,_ she says sourly, as you raise it to your lips. The taste is familiar to her, but utterly bizarre to you. Frankly, you can’t tell the difference, it’s very probable that she’s had far too many cups of it to recall one specific taste.

“So who did you call?” he says, leaning with one hand propped on the desk and a hip angled saucily against the top drawer, “ghostbert? He goes way back, he’d be able to keep things on the down-low, maybe rope in that thing with the fumigator service if we need a van.”  
“His sister,” you fill in at the end of the sentence. You are very sure that’s right, even if a lot of what he said sounds like a long joke with no punchline.  
“Cool.”  
He waits overlong at your side, his fingertips rattling at the desk.  
“Dave?”  
He stands up straight, clearing his throat.  
“Yeah?” he says.  
“Thank you for the tea.”  
He startles at that, his lip curling up into a tiny, precious smile.  
“Yeah,” he repeats, full of good humour, “Totally all up on this bodyshare comfort business. Drink it before it goes cold.” 

You tip it down your throat, feeling warmed from within. It’s a little disappointing when it ends, actually. You start to miss your corporeal partner. It would be nice to share this little experience with them.  
There’s nothing to do but wait for a phone call after that - Rose is frustrated and Dave meanders around in beatific fondness, doodling strange things on a notepad and fussing over your comfort. It’s driving your host up the walls. 

There’s a shrill noise that repeats, and you jump in alarm.  
“Woha,” he says, mid-way through making more food for the both of you. He puts a hand on both of your shoulders, giving them a squeeze and making sure you’re grounded. You really appreciate it.  
“That’s the phone. It’s okay, I will be _right_ back. Two minutes or less.”  
He turns away to go get it, and you trail a little after him, stopping after a few steps. The half-made meal stays right where it’s put, and though Rose tells you not to, you go right on ahead and prod it.  
It is not as illuminating as you thought it might be.

He’s back in a few, just as promised, still talking on the phone.  
“Yo I told you, Rose isn’t able to talk, the thing is in her brain right now and serving like a mute button- no, yeah, she can talk, it just won’t be actually her-”  
He holds the phone a little away from his face.  
“Fancy a chat?”  
You pull a face. It can’t be harder than communication files. Just... faster.  
“They’re thinking about it.”  
You reach for the phone, and fumble it a little before putting it up to the side of your head, mimicking him. He flashes you a double hand sign you take as a good luck.  
“Hi Rose!” the voice on the other end says, and pauses for a few moments before following up with an “Um, you can’t hear me, can you?”  
You give Dave a wary eye.  
“Yes?” you say cautiously.  
“Oh!” they say, “Just a minute!”  
There’s a crackle and a snap, and in the blurry background you hear the same voice talking.  
_Her accent changed, it’s really strange!_  
“Sorry!” the voice says again, much closer. You pull the phone away from your ear in alarm. They add something else you didn’t quite catch, so you put it back.  
“...Over soon! John really wants to look at your original host body if we can find it. He’s part of the cover-up so he’ll probably sell pictures of it to sketchy magazines, so i hope you’re okay with that.”  
You give Dave a confused frown, and he reaches over to pluck the phone from your fingers.  
_Oh, delightful. Dinner and a twilight zone show._  
“Hey Harley, it’s me,” he says, “Cool it on the science, I don’t think this alien speaks physics.”  
He laughs at her reply, and you fidget a little, reaching for a cloth nearby. It’s soothing to fold it, the surface rasping against your fingertips. Rose seems like she’s brimming over with comments, but withholds a lot of the fleeting thoughts though force of self-control.

He rounds out the call, turning it off with a beep and laying the phone on the counter.  
“They’re gonna be here around seven o’clock, but you don’t have to be around them until we go out looking for your-” he pauses, describes a figure with his fingers, “your body. The one you came with. Rose being this quiet is sorta weird, to be honest.”  
Excuse me, she replies sarcastically.  
“I miss it a bit,” he muses aloud, before turning back to the plate on the side. 

The Harley and Ghostbert, who Rose mentally corrects to _Jade and John,_ roll up in an old van spraypainted servicable black a little after the sky turns dark, and the pair of them are an intimidating whirlwind of bright hues and dark hair. John (Who is shaped like Dave, only much, much bigger) turns to you and opens his arms. You let out a jittery little meep and Dave comes in to explain what precisely a hug is, with a demonstration by Jade. Her hair smells nice. Rose is trying to tell you it’s fine, but you are currently the smallest person in the room, if not the least able to maneuver.

Round two of hugs, which don’t seem to get boring despite the frequency, and then everybody’s down to business, shuffling up to sit at the fold-out table. John throws his keys on the table and takes a seat next to you; you’re hemmed in on two sides by black-haired people of alarmingly heroic stature. 

“So she’s still in here, right?” John says, his meaty hand landing on your shoulder. You jump at that, folding your fingers together.  
“Yes,” you say, speaking up despite the fear, “I can tell you what she is saying.”  
Jade leans a little closer, Dave nods, and John gives you an interested grin.  
Rose doesn’t want to say anything.  
“She is being quiet now,” you say, and Dave spits an ugh, slamming a fist on the table. Jade’s brows come down, adjusting her spectacles with a little click.  
“Well let her know that talking would certainly help me stop worrying.” she says, confidently resting both hands palm-down on the table.  
Dave nods, giving Jade a glance before he considers the keys.  
“Well I think I remember where I got hit,” he says, flicking his fingers in your direction, “Any brain damage is totally the fault of our lady over there.”

The debate continues, mostly over your head. They bring out a map, a measuring stick, and several arguments for and against leaving now vs later, exit possibilities and what to do if you pop out of Rose's head again.  
_Like I am in no way offering up my hot bod for that again, but they weren't, like, malevolent, you know?_  
Jade volunteers, Dave voices concern, and John's hand slips under the table to grab one of yours, and gives it a squeeze. It makes you feel a little better. He also offers himself up as a plausible option, and you're touched, but there's no place like home. Rose agrees, before spoiling your optimism by pointing out that she never intended to become a co-op.

You don't know how long they were talking – it felt long, and you didn't have the bottle to repeat Rose's snide commentary – but they reach the conclusion that it's important for you to be back home as soon as possible. Jade pulls you out of your seat in a less than graceful tug and a chipper declaration that she'll find your original host by morning, and some part of your abdomen feels like it just fell down. You look at it, just to make sure, because the sensation was very convincing. Thankfully, it was a false alarm, and you allow yourself to be boosted up to the passenger seat of John's van. You do not know why there is a red and white decal on the side, but you suppose it sets it apart easily from other road vehicles. John explains that it is a symbol from something that is really cool, but Rose does not agree. 

Jade pokes her head out of the gap between seats, just by your elbow, yelling directions, and distracting John while he attempts to navigate the freeway. Things get so heated that he actually pulls over to the side of the road, just to argue. Moments later she's got his head under her arm and is half-pulling him into the back of the van. You believe he may have missed a road marker.

Several minutes later, John is in the back of the van, Jade is in the driver's seat, and Dave is in charge of the map. She crunches the gears and sends the vehicle in a swift turn back the way it came. You'd like to admire her profile, but you're under strict orders to watch for anything that could be your host. _I suspect that paying attention to her driving habits will not set your mind at ease,_ Rose adds, in a mock-helpful tone.

Jade pulls up to the crash site just when the sky is beginning to turn dark blue, the stars visible now that the light pollution from the road is no longer causing an intermittent glow. You think it is very beautiful. The hole that your podship made is a large void in the side of a pylon stand, and the electricity buzzes audibly overhead. Rose is afraid, but the feeling just makes her angry.  
The four of you enter, in single file. John goes first, holding a long, blunt object, and you watch from behind him for your body's familiar profile. Dave is behind you, close enough to step on your heels, and Jade brings up the rear with a bright torch to light the way. 

Rose, ever cheerful, is running through a list of elaborate disaster scenarios. You try to send her warm feelings, since you're not so good with words, but she's busy over-imagining your arsenal with which to eviscerate with. One eye on current events and the other in her harlequin horror fantasy, you protest silently. Your venom sacs have been functionally redundant for several generations now. 

Dave lets out a yell as something large skitters over rubble and out of the corner of Jade's torch-light. John moves automatically to block you from it, but you duck under his arm fearlessly to move toward it. Jade follows you with the light, but you wave it off with a meaningful glance; your people, and your culture in general, are particularly photosensitive. 

Taking a step, and then another, your eyes get used to the dim; Rose's fear is a crackling, incessant presence that sits unhealthily at the back curve of your skull and the top of your spine, but it is not your fear, so you decide to ignore it. That helps, a little.  
Raising your hand in the proper sign of transference, though your graspers are a little too short to show it properly, you move into the dark. The shape of the wall gives way to a hidden figure, pressed into the angle of a pair of ruined steel struts still festooned with chunks of burnt, flaked concrete. It shimmers in freckled pinpoints as a warning.  
Your mouth tries to form your native tongue, but everything is too sloppy. You take another step, aware of your original host's impressive stature, and are now aware of why John and Jade scared you so much when you met them. Your corporeal form is a towering figure with yellow glowing eyes squinted to a horizontal slice, waiting impatiently for your return.  
It reaches, to touch your head, a large hand with long, slim fingers that follow the curve of your skull over the band. You lift your arm to touch in kind, wrapping your fingers half-around their wrist. They feel quite cold. 

Back you turn to the humans that have brought you here. Your host's arm rests lazily but possessive over your shoulder, fingertips touching the dip of your collarbone.  
“Please,” you voice.  
Jade flashes the torch at your oculars and you feel that familiar uneasy rip, like old-picked stitches at this point, unwelcome but necessary and painful. Rose tries for a last pithy statement, but it doesn't transfer properly as you leave, and you get the impression of mixed disappointment, regret, and loss. Your host begins to luminesce again, to show you the way. 

The air is free and wide and terrifying, the humans moving toward Rose to bring her back to them, and from your time visiting you can understand why. Humans, even reticent and snide ones, are social creatures that rely on each other for support, just as you live in symbiosis with your host. 

You dive back in to them, a feeling like being wrapped in snug, warm affection once more. Her grasper segments are covered in new scratches and painful bruises in livid dark green that you understand but don’t know for yourself. After your time away you’re willing to do nothing but sit and sleep for a thousand sweeps and let your host do all the talking and moving around. She picks around for what to say to your friends - well, you want to call them friends, but you understand that it might be a lot more complicated.

“Thank you,” she pulls up. You add a quick nod. “I will leave as soon as I am able, and my friend is very thankful.”  
You feel like there's something missing from the overly formal yet empty goodbye, and you don't want to leave so soon, anyway. You mutually agree to edge a little closer.  
“Live long and prosper,” you add, feeling benevolent and majestic, “And may the force be with you.”


End file.
